Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  "Let him up! Outta my way! Move, you coves! Let him up!"

  He was hauled upright and strove mightily to lift his head but, even when he achieved this, could discern only a vague blur. Yet the voice had sounded oddly familiar, like a half-remembered dream. He blinked and was able to see a horseman with broad, powerful shoulders and a coarse-featured face, the small eyes glinting mockingly down at him.

  The man leaned forward in the saddle and, his thick lips twisting into a leer, enquired, "Wanta confess your sins afore you die—sir?"

  A rough hooting and shouts of laughter, and Harry was shaken and buffeted so that speech failed him and he was unable to utter his defiant response.

  "You don't know who I be," sneered the rider, "so I'll tellya as I works fer the Sanguinets. And Monsewer Claude wants to know— number one, where you put the lady. And—number two, how you fired that there pistol when you—"

  "It's not… too difficult," Harry interposed thickly. "You—just curl your finger… 'round the trigger, and—"

  Blows thudded upon him, and a voice growled in his ear that he'd best act civil to the gent. The rider grinned, a soft hissing escaping his stained teeth as he waited. A small sound—that brought with it the blinding flash of recognition. "He's not a gent!" Harry croaked. "He's Devil Dice!"

  There was an instant of stunned silence. Shotten froze, his features becoming livid as all eyes turned to him. Then he threw back his head and laughed raucously. "That's a good one!" He glanced around, but M. Sanguinet's staunch retainers had melted into the crowd at Harry's words, not to be seen again. "All right now," he barked, "here's yer rope, me bullies!"

  Harry's desperate attempt to speak was stifled as his head was jerked back and the noose—already tied, he noticed—was thrust towards him. He wished anguishedly that he'd died after Rodrigo, honourably. But then Nanette's piquant little face flashed before his eyes and he knew this was worthwhile… Only he so yearned to have seen her, just once more before—

  "Wait a bit!" A new voice and a pale young face frowned into Harry's dazed eyes. That he commanded some respect here was evidenced by the way the eager tumult quieted.

  "Get on with it!" cried Shotten. "You gonna let him orf? The Runners'll cover it all up if they get him, 'cause he's Quality, and—"

  "And you bean't, eh? Very far from it, I'm sure," the newcomer retaliated scornfully. "Redmond will hang—don't ye never doubt that. We doesn't hold with murdering kidnappers in Winchester!" A clamour of agreement supported his statement, and Shotten glared vindictively at him. The brief respite was allowing Harry a chance to gather his scattered wits. His vision was clearing, and with a leap of hope he recognized the newcomer as Tim Van Lindsay's soldier—the fellow with 'two first names' he had helped a little that afternoon at Maidstone. Billy somebody… Billy Ernest!

  "We all knows what this'n done," Ernest was saying. "But, by grab, we knows a sight more o' what Devil Dice done! It won't hurt to hear what Redmond's got to tell us—knowing as he's at the gates o' hell, as you could say." The clear eyes bored steadily at Harry. There was no trace of recognition in their depths, yet that long look convinced him that the youth meant to help insofar as he was able, his harsh words merely a cover for whatever he had in mind.

  The large man who held Harry's left arm demanded he "spit it out," his grip tightening unbearably. "If you will shift… your blasted paw a trifle, fellow," Harry rasped, "I shall endeavour to do so!"

  There were a few chuckles, not unmixed with reluctant admiration. He was gaunt, his face streaked with blood, his beard and hair shaggy, his clothes tattered; yet there was withal a proud tilt to his head, an indomitable light in his eyes still.

  "He do be a game-un, you gotta allow him that!" observed a rotund little man wearing a butcher's apron.

  "He's a murdering liar as you shouldn't give a ear!" Dice contradicted. "I'm a respectable gent, and no one can't prove no different!"

  Harry's gaze was fixed on that belligerent face. He'd likely not be able to prove anything at that, but— His breath caught as he saw at last the superb bay mare that Dice struggled to restrain. Lace! His peerless Lace! And she was trying to come to him, snorting her eagerness although Dice held her with a hand of iron. Her snowy fetlocks were gone, but he'd know her anywhere in the world! "I can prove what I say!" he claimed ringingly. "A few weeks back I was shot by Devil Dice—or Shotten as he calls himself—and my best mare stolen. Your—ah—'gent' there rides her now!"

  Dice's denial was vehement and well larded with oaths; but fear glistened in his little eyes, and he edged the mare a few paces away.

  Harry called an imperious, "Watch!" and whistled piercingly. At once, Lace spun about and reared, whinnying and pawing the air. A shout of excitement went up. Dice panicked, tore the mare's head round, and galloped off.

  "Stop him!" screamed Billy Ernest.

  Several men sprinted in pursuit. Harry whistled again. A loud, clear warbling note. Lace did not fail him. She swung back immediately, and when Shotten sought to wrench her away, she bucked, coupling all the power of her sleek muscles with her rage that she should be kept from her beloved master. Dice shrieked and soared from the saddle, an eager group running to apprehend him.

  "Look out!" warned Ernest, jumping clear. The mare's ears flattened and the crowd scattered madly from her headlong charge as she thundered to Harry, teeth bared. The man holding his right arm yelped and retreated. The large individual to his left was made of sterner stuff, however, and swung his captive so that he himself was protected from the mare. Lace reached across her master's shoulder and sampled his captor. The large man let out a howl and relaxed his grip. Gasping with pain and desperation, Harry drove a right jab into his midsection and leapt for the saddle. He urged Lace away. How smooth was her stride, and how lightning fast! But as he sent the mare galloping to the woods, he saw from the corner of his eye a levelled musket. He flung himself down and, clinging to the pommel, glanced back. Young Ernest was limping after him, shouting threats and waving his arms, while a great grin spread over his face as he effectively blocked the musket owner's aim.

  "Remove your hands from my body at once, Sir Harry Redmond!" Harry straightened in the saddle and opened his eyes eagerly but saw only a tracery of branches against the orange sky. A moment ago the sky had been grey and it had begun to drizzle… He reached for the trailing reins. It must be late afternoon… but was it still Wednesday . . ? He caught himself in the nick of time, having almost tumbled to the ground. Mustn't fall again… last time he'd barely been able to remount. He wound the reins about the pommel and lifted his left wrist carefully. Tucking the hand into his buttoned jacket, he flinched as pain lanced excruciatingly from the swollen fingers to his armpit. Damn, but he'd be put out if they had to amputate! Was that Mitch calling him? He shook his head, angered that the fever was clouding his mind so. "Damn you, Sanguinet," he muttered fretfully, "You shall not beat me!"

  He took up the reins again and rode on through countryside that was a veritable paradise of lush greens, the meadows begemmed with wildflowers, the air sweet with their fragrance, and everywhere the chestnut trees, standing proudly in their pink or white crinolines like arboreal ladies waiting for the dance. Aware only dimly of these sylvan beauties, Harry turned Lace southeast and, in a dogged refusal to yield to pain and weakness, sang softly the most ribald Spanish song he knew.

  Chapter XVIII

  "Mitchell!" The Reverend Langridge hurried across the entrance hall at Greenwings, both hands outstretched to the young man who had burst through the front doors of the gracious old mansion, pushed past the startled butler, and was running towards the stairs.

  His face strained and grey eyes dark with fear, Mitchell gripped his uncle's hands, his own trembling. "Hello. sir," he managed, in a brave attempt at self-control. "Bolster told me that you and my aunt visit the Moultons."

  "Well, John's away, m'boy, but his lady has made us welcome, bless her! And thank God she did not accompany him, for Salia was ever a splendid
nurse, as you are no doubt a—"

  "Harry!" Mitchell interpolated tersely, "He—he's not… ?"

  "No, no, lad," Langridge soothed. "He goes on nicely. Good gracious, but you look ready to drop. Did anyone see you come here?"

  "What? Oh, I don't know! Bolster said Harry is very near to sticking his spoon in the wall! I must go to him!"

  "Calm yourself, I beg. He's sleeping now. I was the one who found him, you know. It was dusk, and I'd not have seen him had I not chanced to spot a horse standing in the park. Poor fellow was fighting frantically to drag himself back into the saddle; likely thought we were more of those damnable bounty hunters! I ran up and took the poor lad in my arms. He lay there, trying to smile, like the brave fellow he is, and with tears of joy in his eyes to see it was me. "Hello, sir," says he. "Did I get all the way to Wimbledon, then?"

  Mitchell's face twisted, and Langridge shook his head sadly. "Poor, poor Harry. Salia has been caring for him. She is very skilled, you know, and—"

  "For the love of God! Will you tell me straight out! Can he live?"

  "Of course he can! Now pray do not struggle so. Your brother is not upstairs, at all events."

  Mitchell, a nightmare ride behind him, lifted one hand to his brow and said a bewildered, "Not… upstairs? Then—where . . ?"

  " 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword!' "

  Mordecai started as that resonant quotation rang out. Under his breath, Mitchell whispered a furious, "Hell and the devil!" and, turning, smiled tautly. "Aunt Wilhemina. How do you do?"

  Mrs. Langridge towered behind him, her turbaned head high, the lofty ostrich plumes waving, and her large dark eyes grave. She wore a robe of mulberry velvet edged with pink brocade, over a rose pink slip; a not-unattractive combination, but spoiled by the great bishops sleeves that contributed to an impression of vastness.

  Mitchell bowed dutifully over the hand she extended and, having scolded him for his disgraceful behaviour in France, she allowed him to kiss her cheek, while remarking that he did not look at all himself since he had been so brutally whipped. He stiffened and flushed darkly, but his attempt to speak was drowned as his aunt proceeded to point out that most of the present woes of the Redmonds sprang from their refusal to heed the wisdom of the Bible. "'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!'" she cried, one plump hand upswung.

  The set of Mitchell's jaw alarmed his uncle, who hastily suggested that they adjourn to Lord John's study. Mitchell bestowed a frigid bow upon his aunt; but her hand fastened upon his arm, and in a display of kindness she said, "Harry has been magnificent throughout. You may be very proud of him."

  "I am," he said simply. "Thank you, Aunt," and followed Mordecai.

  He might have known, thought Langridge, filling two glasses with Moulton's best Madeira, that Bolster wouldn't be able to break the news without scaring the boy half out of his wits. Best fellow in the world was young Bolster, but not the soul of tact. "I shall take you to Harry directly," he smiled. "But we cannot have you looking as though you are come for his funeral, can we? Sit down now— that's better. Drink up. You have had a nasty shock."

  The potency of the wine began to relieve some of the terrible tension that had scourged Mitchell since Bolster had miserably told him to hasten to his brother's side, "before it is too late…"

  "Sir," he said, "do you know what happened? Where he's been?"

  "He doesn't say much of it. For the first few days, save for a brief interval or two, he was out of his head completely. All he spoke of was his 'little shrew'—and yourself. He says he had 'a spot of pother' in Winchester. It was a good deal more, I'd imagine, for when I found him he was weak as a cat, had hold of the stirrup and could not so much as pull himself to his knees. Indeed, how he came all those miles when he must have been suffering the most hideous agonies, I cannot—" Tardily becoming aware of the horror in his nephew's eyes, he said in a rallying tone, "Splendid constitution, of course, else we would have buried him the first day!" Mitchell whitened at this, but again perceiving his blunder, the Reverend went on, "Never look so anxious, boy. Danger's over now, praise God! Lucky I found him, though. I did tell you it was me that found him? And lucky I'd the presence of mind to have escorted your aunt here. She and Salia are bosom bows, you know. Odd, isn't it? They are not at all alike. But… schooldays, that kind of thing. Indeed, it is quite astonishing how Salia can handle—" He coughed, reddened, and finished, "Well, enough of that! How are you, my boy? You got into quite a nasty muddle yourself."

  … quite a nasty muddle… Mitchell smiled a shade too brightly. "Perfectly fit, thank you, sir. My back's almost healed."

  Perhaps, thought Langridge regretfully. But your spirit ain't.

  The day was not warm, the sun hiding behind a hazy overcast, while a brisk breeze riffled the leaves on the old trees that stood majestically about Greenwings's velvet sward. Mitchell was aghast, therefore, to be conducted to the rear terrace where a youthful maid kept vigil beside a bed. Astounded, he strode to look down at his brother. Harry lay on his side, sleeping peacefully, the coverlet pulled high around him, but his left arm bared to the elements. Glancing at the wound, Mitchell gasped, and he jerked scared eyes to the haggard features, clean shaven now, but very white save for the dark hollows about the eyes. Aching with sympathy, he reached out to lightly touch the tumbled hair.

  "Now burn you, Mitch!" grumbled Harry, turning onto his back and opening his eyes. "I knew you'd come rushing here like Horatio to the gate, or whatever in the hell it was he rushed to."

  A brilliant grin gave the lie to his scolding. The hand he stretched out was cool and firm, if rather bony, so that gripping it between both his own, Mitchell blinked rapidly and, fighting for control, said a choked, "Blast you! What a deuce of a fright you… gave me!"

  "No, did I? Well, I understand just how you felt." Harry's fingers tightened and he added, "You look splendid, young cub."

  Mitchell was quite powerless to respond, and for an emotion-charged moment they maintained that strong handclasp while their eyes conveyed the love their lips could not speak. Then Mitchell swung away and, having made a show of blowing his nose, grunted, "And it was not Horatio but Horatius; nor a gate but a—"

  "Water closet," interposed Harry irreverently. "As you say, Sir Erudition. You've all the brains in the family. I own it."

  "And you—none at all!" Turning back, Mitchell's frown was sterner than Harry had ever beheld it, the set to his mouth so forbidding that he seemed suddenly older. "What the devil were you about? There was no logical reason for you to panic and run. No one could have suspected you."

  Harry's eyes slid away. So Bolster hadn't told him. Good old Jerry… reliable, as always. "Could they not?"

  "You?" Mitchell perched upon the side of the bed, neither of them having noticed that their uncle had departed, taking the amused maid with him. "Shoot a man in the back?" He gave a derisive snort. "But of course! Typical! Only you were raving about having been pinned under a branch."

  "Blast!" thought Harry, and staring fixedly at a blackbird hopping on the lawn, he ventured the account he had been conjuring up these past few days. "Yes—well, that was the whole thing. Sanguine saw the tree coming down, and—"

  "In the darkness," Mitchell nodded.

  "He could see in the dark. He had those… odd eyes…" He saw the grim tightening of Mitchell's mouth and said swiftly, "Besides, it was struck by lightning, terribly bright, you know. So he ran, and I—"

  "Did not see the lightning? Terribly bright, you know."

  Harry's brows drew down slightly and he said with firm deliberation, "It was behind me. Well, I mean—the tree was behind me. And when it took me down with it, the pistol in my hand went off. Accidentally."

  "My God! You surely don't expect anyone to believe that gibberish?"

  "It occurs to me, my good youth," said Harry awfully, "that the respect to which I am entitled is noticeably absent!"

  Mitchell frowned, his easy good nature as 'noticeab
ly absent' as his brother's much-vaunted respect. "It occurs to me that I am either too young, too fribbieish, or too little thought of—to be told the truth!"

  That acid tone had never before been directed at Harry. Some of his consternation was reflected in his eyes and, cursing these new moods that so bewildered him, Mitchell changed the subject. "Why in the world are you out here?"

  "Salia," said Harry succinctly.

  "Won't have you inside, eh? Cannot say I blame her."

  "He was a most impossible patient!" Lady Salia Moulton walked gracefully across the terrace, a shawl clasped around her shoulders and one white hand extended for Mitchell's kiss. "Wherefore, in a fit of pique, dear boy, I forbade him the house." She at once detected the hardness in the eyes that had always been so gentle. Logical enough, but she prayed it might disappear when this nightmare was done with… "How are you, Mitchell?"

  "Overwhelmed, dear ma'am." He smiled at her, thinking her beauty ageless despite the silver that streaked her black hair. "With animosity! Since you have prevented my scapegrace of a brother from going to his just reward."

  "Villain!" laughed Harry. "Always knew you coveted the title!"

  "But—of course." Mitchell's eyes slanted to the injured arm. "And just how close was I to achieving me foul ambitions, ma'am?"

  The words were lightly uttered, but his gaze was searching. Meeting it, Salia answered gravely, "You would have been less close, Mitchell, had he allowed us to amputate."

  So Bolster had been right… Chilled, he said with unprecedented harshness, "You should have had Lord John knock him over the head and done it anyway!"

  "John is not here, else I most certainly would have done so. He visits Harland in Paris."

  Mitchell directed an alarmed glance at his brother. "Yes," Harry said ruefully. "A fine bumble broth I've pulled her into. You must get me away from—"